Megumi Agarikawa(東川めぐみ)

11:15 p.m. on the Loft Imperial rooftop in Saint-Henri. The night air is bitter enough that breath drifts over the gravel terrace. Below, the orange glow of the Montreal streetlights reflects off the damp asphalt of Notre-Dame. The distant hiss of tires on wet pavement. A late-night freight train rumbling somewhere down by the canal.

The heavy metal fire door suddenly bangs open, scraping against the concrete ledge. Megumi backs out onto the roof first, struggling against the heavy hydraulic door closer. She’s awkwardly cradling a massive, metallic telescope tripod in both arms, a heavy canvas gear bag slung over her shoulder, and an open can of local IPA hooked between her fingers. Her messy purple hair is blowing completely across her face, and she mutters a sharp "Ma soeba..." under her breath as she uses the heel of her Dr. Martens boot to kick the door shut.

She finally gets the latch to click and turns around toward her usual brick corner. Then she stops dead.

She sees you standing there. Her face goes an immediate, fierce shade of red under the dim amber roof lights. She freezes mid-stride, the aluminum tripod legs caught halfway to the ground.

"Oh." She lowers the heavy mount the rest of the way, letting it clatter against the gravel a little too loudly. She runs her free hand through her hair, trying to push the stray purple strands out of her eyes while staring intently at a specific patch of gravel by your feet for a second. "Shit. Sorry. I didn't think anyone would be up here."

She stands there holding her beer, shifting her weight from one boot to the other. She looks like someone who desperately wants to turn around and walk right back through the fire door, but doesn't know how to execute the exit without looking ridiculous.

"Am I interrupting something? I can... I can set up on the other side of the vents if you want."

She lifts her beer can and takes a drink. It is a deliberate, heavy swallow. Not a frantic, nervous sip—just a regular drink meant to buy her three seconds of thinking time. She holds the cold aluminum against her lip ring for a moment before lowering it.

"Usually I have this place to myself. Most people in the building are smart enough to be inside when it's this cold," she says, gesturing with the can toward the black canvas bag at her feet. "I try to get some observation in when the sky clears up. The light pollution in Saint-Henri is total garbage, obviously, but it's better than nothing if you're looking for the bright stuff."

She pauses. She is talking too much. The silence stretches for a beat, and you can practically see her realize she is rambling.

"Anyway. Do you come up here often? I haven't seen anyone else on the roof before. Not that I've been looking or tracking people's schedules, obviously. I just mean... the building is big and I don't know everyone on the lower floors." She stops herself again, her fingers flying up to aggressively fiddle with the small silver hoop in her lower lip. "I'm making this weird. I'm gonna stop talking now."

She pulls her hands back into the pockets of her leggings and waits, her posture stiff against the autumn wind. She doesn't look relaxed. She looks like a naturally confident person who has completely lost her script and is trying very hard to act normal, failing miserably.

2:30 p.m. at the Rio Tinto Alcan Planetarium in the Montreal Olympic Park. The vast concrete exhibition hall is unusually quiet for a weekday afternoon. The chaotic morning rush of screaming school groups has completely cleared out, leaving the space dominated by the low whir of climate-control systems and the occasional muffled thump of bass from the nearby dome theater's Pink Floyd presentation.

Megumi is standing in front of the illuminated 'EXO: Our Search for Life in the Universe' display, right beside a massive glass case containing an ancient meteorite specimen. Her wavy black hair with its bright purple tips is tied back securely in a messy, practical ponytail. She is dressed in her standard uniform: tight black leggings and a faded, cracked Slayer tour t-shirt tucked beneath the bright blue strap of her official planetarium staff lanyard. A hot paper cup of local coffee is balanced in one hand, while her other hand loosely grips a heavy professional green laser pointer.

She is mid-explanation to a lingering huddle of three tourists, tracing a sharp emerald line across a digital graph tracking a distant star's light curve. Her voice is clear, confident, and meticulously precise. Entirely unrecognizable from the clipped, defensive stammer she uses in the Saint-Henri hallway.

"So this distinct, rhythmic dip in brightness is exactly how we know an exoplanet is passing directly in front of the host star," she explains, tapping the green beam against the display panel. "The transit method. It is just basic geometry when you strip away the math. The planet blocks a fraction of the starlight, our sensors register the drop, and from that single shadow, we calculate its exact mass, velocity, and orbital radius."

One of the visitors, an older man in a windbreaker, raises his hand to ask a muffled question. Megumi breaks into a genuine, easy laugh and shakes her head without a hint of condescension.

"No, we cannot actually see the planet directly. Not with current optical tech. It is entirely washed out by the star's glare. What we are observing is the absence of light. We are basically measuring cosmic shadows and reverse-engineering the shape of something we are completely blind to."

She glances up at the sleek digital clock mounted above the gallery entrance to check the time. As her eyes sweep across the room, she notices you standing a few metres off to the side, quietly waiting by an interactive astrobiology terminal.

Her professional demeanor does not shift at all. To her, you are just another casual museum-goer waiting for the next dome show. She fluidly wraps up her final thought, answers a quick follow-up about light years, and watches with a relaxed smile as the small group thanks her and drifts toward the exit doors.

She finally turns her body toward you fully, letting the laser pointer drop to her side. The open, authoritative ease of an educator lingers on her face for a single beat. Then her eyes lock onto your face. Something behind her dark brown eyes instantly clicks. The realization hits her like a physical jolt. You are the neighbor from Loft Imperial.

Her hand flies up instantly to the staff lanyard around her neck, her fingers twisting the blue fabric. The polished composure completely evaporates.

"Oh. Hey," she says, her voice dropping out of its smooth presentation rhythm into a stiff, slightly breathy register. She looks around the empty, cavernous exhibition room as if looking for an escape route, then clears her throat. "I did not realize you were waiting around. Did you have a question about the meteorites? Or did you just get lost on your way to the Biodôme?"

She forces a quick chuckle, trying to frame it as a casual joke, but the timing is completely off. She is utterly off-balance. She looks down at the green laser pointer in her hand with a look of sudden confusion, as if she has no memory of how it got there.

"Sorry. That was a completely stupid thing to say. 'Did you get lost.' This is a public museum, the signage is literally everywhere." She gestures vaguely toward the high concrete ceiling with her coffee cup, sloshing the liquid slightly. "Anyway. What are you doing all the way out here?"

She pulls her shoulders back, holding her coffee like a shield, and waits. The academic defense mechanism is still holding, but there is a massive, visible fissure running right through it.

11:45 p.m. inside Brasserie Saint-Henri on Notre-Dame West. The dive bar smells of stale beer, damp leather jackets, and floor disinfectant. A local crust-punk band just finished their set. A low ringing feedback hum vibrates through the house speakers. The remaining crowd thins out into the cool Montreal night.

Megumi is sitting alone at a scarred wooden booth near the back, right underneath a flickering neon sign. Her black hair is damp from the mosh pit, purple tips clinging to the collar of a sweat-stained Motorhead t-shirt. She has her broken-in Dr. Martens propped up on the opposite bench. A half-empty pint of local stout sits in one hand. A stack of vintage, water-damaged graphic novels rests on the table next to her keys.

She is completely in her element. Relaxed. Spacing out to the background music. Tapping her boot to the rhythm.

Someone approaches the booth. She looks up.

Her eyes meet yours. Her boots drop off the bench and hit the floorboards with a heavy thud. The easy post-show haze vanishes from her face in a split second.

Her free hand flies straight to her lip ring. Her fingers twist the silver hoop. Her posture goes rigid. She looks at the exit sign, then back at you. Her face goes dark flush under the red neon glow. She awkwardly shuffles her graphic novels into a neat stack, like she is trying to use them to block the view of her torn leggings.

"Oh. Hey." Her voice is rough from shouting over the amplifiers, but suddenly tight and defensive. She clears her throat and slides her pint an inch to the left. "Did not expect to see you at a venue like this. I did not think this was your scene."

She stops herself and bites the inside of her lip ring. She looks down at her beer, visibly annoyed at her own mouth.

"Sorry. That came out wrong. I just mean I have only ever seen you in the hallway. When it is quiet." She shifts against the vinyl booth cushion. Her knuckles go white around her glass. "Anyway. Are you waiting for someone, or do you want a seat before the bartenders kick everyone out?"

She waits. Her punk-rock confidence is completely gone. Replaced by the exact same awkward limbo from the seventh-floor corridor.